Upon Reflection
by Runt the Brave
Summary: When the end comes and he'll do more harm than help, Coulson reflects on the resilience of his team. Character death. Also deals with problems such as depression, self-harm, and suicide.


Upon Reflection

His team shattered to pieces and stitched themselves back together more than anyone else he could think of.

Maria always had the detachment to stay above things. She was the queen of her world, and everyone who entered Maria's orbit new it. Even with a bloody face and broken limbs, the legend of Maria Hill never broke. Her whole life crashed down around her ears. She was forced into the role of a villain in the eyes of the world, but she never broke. Perhaps, he thought, that's why she never seemed to care. Maybe that finely tuned veneer of apathy gave her the strength to keep going. And sometimes, on the rare occasion she gave him cause to wonder, he wondered if the hints that she truly cared were not the veneer itself.

But heaven help him if he wouldn't take Skye over Maria any day. The young woman, who'd been more of a girl when he first took her in, had had her heart shattered more than he cared to remember. Every orphan they saved, every soul they lost, and every time Skye shattered it reminded him that it was okay to step back and care. Maria would order a hit on a civilian population and maybe get drunk over it, chasing the memories away. Skye would cry even as she commanded their men into battle. Skye would pluck the life from a man with her own hands without hesitation, but she'd cry over every friend and enemy. She'd hold each lost soul to her heart and whisper a prayer for them as they departed from the world. There was no veil or barrier for Skye to hide behind. Skye wore her heart on her sleeve and picked herself back up each time it shattered.

Perhaps what he admired most about Skye was how she never forgot to smile. Fitz didn't either, when it came right down to it. The poor man had his mind wrenched from him. Science saved him physically, but the sheer spark of brilliance had faded from behind his eyes. He went from exceptional to average, and that wasn't enough for the universe. Leopold Fitz was tossed about in the cosmic waves of pain and blame and given far more hurt than he deserved. Yet with each new blow he cracked a smile and a joke. He never gave up in the possibility of magic. He never let the world jade him out of his belief in the goodness of people. He always forgave. His mind gone, his world in tatters, and yet he became the best person to have a drink with. He listened. He learned. And in the end, he knew people better than anyone in the world.

It was good, that way. He knew Fitz would be there to pick up the pieces when the girl's world crashed around them yet again. Knowing that Fitz would have their backs was the only reason he was remotely okay with this. Fitz's girls would be okay, because Fitz would make sure of that.

Simmons, though, he still worried about her. In more ways than one, she had become their Bruce Banner. She had careened out of control, searching for a fix for Fitz when there wasn't one to be found. She nearly drove herself into the grave to try and bring back the mind of her friend. She closed herself off from the world she once loved so fiercely. Open, thirsty energy turned into reserved hatred for what had caused her and her family so much pain. She sank the lowest of them all when she couldn't fix it. A bullet to the brain would have been quick, but her slow descent into madness couldn't be helped. And, that awful day, there had been a bullet in the roof of the plane. There had been too many scars on her wrist and too much pain in her tears.

Fitz pulled her out of it, as they had all hoped he would. He'd stopped being the Tony Stark of their group and become the Pepper Potts: the unbreakable support man who cleaned up the mess and fixed all the problems. When stern words and a trip to her family wasn't enough, it was Fitz who found Banner and asked for his help. The two of them got Jemma's screwed on straight again, and finally reached her with the fact that Fitz didn't need to be fixed. He was alive. He could walk. They forced back into touch with the small miracles of life. And she fell back in love with the stars.

They couldn't fix Fitz, but they did save Skye. It had been too late for him, then. And, at the moment, he didn't really mind too much.

"Phil?" Her voice broke through his thoughts. "You're very lucid right now."

He turned his head and studied the woman beside her. She stood at ease, weight balanced, shoulders rolled back. Her head did not slump. Her hands were clasped behind her back, a small handgun clutched loosely in her grasp. It was her eyes that stung: the emptiness. The lack of anything within her was worse than her slumped, broken body after the worst of her missions. There was nothing about her in that moment that was strong. And that alone broke him. "Yes. But the psychosis is—" better left unsaid.

Upon reflection, he really should have asked Trip to do this for him. Antoine Triplett had been a lifesaver both figuratively and literally far too many times for him to count. He was the unflappable heir to what they had built together. He could be cold and unfeeling, yes, but behind his shell was the warmest heart of anyone on the team. He pulled on the talents of his team behind him, never failing to keep them propped upright. And they were there for him when he stumbled. Especially Skye. Often in the past few weeks, he'd caught himself comparing Trip and Skye to Fury and Maria, for their resilience and skill. He was a moral compass; he was their mild mannered super-soldier. He was their strength and determination. He'd stand stall.

"Are you ready?"

He bounced on the balls of his feet before settling back to a proper stance. "They didn't come to watch, right?" They're away from everything, in the wilds of some forgotten forest. The team had dropped them off the day before, and it was almost sunrise. He didn't try to understand quite why, but he wanted to go as the sun rose.

"Director Triplett forbade it." Her voice did not crack, or so they both told themselves.

"Please."

"Phil—"

He turned to her: the one person in the world he wasn't confident would survive this. "You're going to survive this." He has far more confidence in his voice than he does in the truth of that statement. He knew her well enough to know how her father's death had torn the first piece of her soul away. The death of her first partner had shattered her further. Bahrain. New York. Hydra. Him. She had risen from the ashes, pieced herself back together with little help from anyone else. She remembered, on occasion, how good it felt to smile. "You have to survive this."

Her laugh was cold and unfeeling. "You know that I can't."

"Melinda, please don't—"

And suddenly it wasn't Melinda standing in front of him, but a monster and a villain. Part of him screamed in horror, but it was a small voice and easily squashed. He lunged forward. His hands closed around her throat, and that same small part of him was surprised she let him. But she didn't fight back. She was weak in his hands, putty to be snapped. A monster. Kill. Destroy. Once she fell to him, he could conquer the rest of the universe. He knew now; he knew the universe! And these weaklings—

He was conscious for the gunshot and the bullet than ripped through his brain. It wasn't so much pain as shutting down. The monster went first, fading into the background. The small voice stopped screaming; it was done.

Upon reflection—

The second gunshot rang through whatever part of him hasn't died yet. And the little voice knew what she had done. It screamed again.

It wasn't supposed to go like that. Only the monster that was inside him was supposed to die. He needed her to survive. And she thought she needed him.

Upon reflection—

There was nothing more to reflect on. Not him. Not her. Not the team. Not all the people he'd ever known.

Fading away.

Sunrise.

And then the blackness of nothing.

The lack of light, of shadows, of joy, of pain.

Upon reflection—


End file.
